same way, only not so richly, preserved the same silence and immobility. Mentally referring to the appearance in Paris of the bayadères, I had an idea that they were dancing-girls from Cairo, some Egyptian acquaintances of my friend Dauzats, and that, encouraged by the favorable notice I had given in my paper to pretty Amany and her brown friends, Sandiroun and Rangoun, they had come to seek my favor in my quality as a feuilletoniste.
"What can I do for you, ladies?" I said, raising my hands to my ears in such a way as to produce a salamalec that should be adequate to the occasion.
The fair Turk raised her eyes to the ceiling, cast them down to the floor, finally looked at her sister with an air of profound meditation. She did not understand a word of French.
"Halloa, Francesco! scoundrel, blockhead, ragamuffin; come here, you misshapen monkey, and make yourself useful for once in your life, at least."
Francesco approached with an important and majestic air.
"As you speak French so badly, you must speak Arabic very well, and you are going to play the part of dragoman between these ladies and me. I promote you to the position of interpreter; in the first place ask these fair strangers who they are, whence they come, and what they want."
I will relate the conversation that ensued as if it had been carried on in French, without attempting to reproduce the various contortions and flowers of rhetoric of the aforesaid Francesco.
"Sir," said the pretty Turk, through the organ of the negro, "although you are a man of letters, you
